


to honor and obey

by bropunzeling



Category: Spinning Silver - Naomi Novik
Genre: F/M, PWP, Praise Kink, Service Kink, ish?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29258814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling
Summary: Irina narrows her eyes at him. “You are the tsar. You rule this country, Mirnatius.”“Only by an accident of birth, andyouare the one who truly rules it. I am only here to serve.”
Relationships: Irina/Mirnatius (Spinning Silver)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	to honor and obey

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, you read a book, and you start a fic about how the demon tsar should really be on his knees for his politico wife, and then it is two years later. You know how it is. Unbetaed.

It has been three hours since Mirnatius has begun hearing petitioners for the day, and every second seems to ooze like honey. Not to say that he does not care about his people, but he certainly does not care about their petty squabbles, not when he has much more valuable uses for his time.

For example, his wife is in her receiving room, doubtless having tea and coded conversations with courtiers, when she could be in her bedchamber, with him.

Mirnatius barely keeps himself from drumming his fingers.

At long last the line of petitioners come to an end, complaints heard, some mediated, many pushed back to the appropriate duke if he can. Before he leaves the hall, Mirnatius allows himself to be pulled aside by Casimir. He knows it will make Casimir feel important and, of much greater interest to himself, his wife happy that he is at least pretending to take an interest in the affairs of the state. He can almost hear her saying _you are the tsar_ , as if that settles it.

“My lord,” Casimir says, looking old and irritable, “have you considered what we should do about Svetia?”

“Do?” he asks back, trying not to sound dismissive and almost certainly failing at it.

“My lord,” Casimir repeats, somehow making the honorific sound like an insult. “We have been discussing the… dangers in the north for months now. Surely you are close to determining a course of action.”

Mirnatius hums. “Surely,” he says back. “But you will have to wait until our next meeting, Casimir. Situations like this require caution, thought.”

“My lord,” Casimir says for the third time, and then he turns on his heel and walks away. He is probably fuming – not that Mirnatius really cares all that much, but Irina certainly does. He tells himself that he ought to talk to her about the Svetian king. No doubt she has already considered all the options available, flipping through them like samples of lacework, and determined the precise course of action that will be best for Lithvas.

Thinking about his wife reminds him of what he really wanted to be doing today, and he takes the stairs slightly quicker than he normally would.

It is a fortuitous day, for when Mirnatius pushes through the thick wooden door into their rooms he only finds Magreta brushing Irina’s hair, rather than the normal multitude of footmen and maids fussing over the fires and linens, or worse, the sons and daughters of princes and counts being privately persuaded to drop a word in their fathers’ ears. After disposing of his boots, it only takes a few moments for him to cross the room, strip off his outer layers down to his shirt, and drop onto the couch next to Irina’s dressing table, flinging his feet up over the armrest on one side and letting his head fall back against the other.

“Casimir wants to know what we want to do about Svetia,” he informs the ceiling. The pattern of vines is beginning to fade, perhaps as a result of the lack of his magic; he really ought to have it repainted. Gold would set off the curtains nicely.

Irina makes a little noise, one that in less exalted women would’ve been considered indelicate. “Of course he does. What did you tell him?”

Mirnatius rolls his head to look at his wife. “I am waiting until our next meeting, so the tsarina can tell me what to do.”

This time, the noise is indisputably indelicate. “You said no such thing.”

“I said no such thing,” Mirnatius agrees. “But I _am_ waiting for the tsarina to tell me what to do.”

Irina narrows her eyes at him. “You are the tsar. You rule this country, Mirnatius.”

“Only by an accident of birth, and _you_ are the one who truly rules it. I am only here to serve.” With this, Mirnatius springs up from the couch. It takes only a few steps to bring him in front of Irina, where he leans down, hands braced against the arms of her chair, so that his eyes are level with hers. 

Magreta, good, faithful, and most importantly perceptive servant, takes this as her cue to leave them be, setting the silver brush on the vanity and exiting quietly. For her part, Irina’s cheeks are turning quite a lovely shade of pink. Mirnatius shall have to sketch it some other time, perhaps with some of the new pigments they received in a shipment from Abyssinia. There was a rose colored one that had caught his eye.

“That doesn’t look very comfortable,” Irina says. Mirnatius thinks he can detect the slightest waver in her voice. He always likes when he can shake his wife out of her coolness; Lithvas needs her strength and steel, but Mirnatius needs other things from her.

Today, Irina has worn a silver necklace with filigree and pearls. Mirnatius runs his fingers along the chain of it, flicking one of the pendants lightly and resting his thumb on her collarbone. “Is this Isaac’s?” he asks. “The craftmanship is beautiful.”

“Yes,” Irina replies, and yes, her voice is less steady now.

Mirnatius’ hand ghosts along her neck, sweeping her hair to rest against her back. When he leans in to brush his lips against the soft skin near her ear, he can hear the sharp intake of breath.

“I think,” Mirnatius says, his lips almost touching her skin, “that we best take it off. To save the craftmanship.”

Irina hums at him and bends her head a little nearer, so that Mirnatius can undo the clasp on the back. He reaches behind her to set the necklace on her vanity, and then returns back to his knees, one hand dropping low to rest on her hip. She’s wearing one of the dresses he commissioned for her, dark blue embroidered with silver. “This looks nice on you,” he adds, thumbing the embroidery that runs along the waist.

“Such compliments,” Irina says dryly, “for things you picked out yourself.”

Mirnatius can’t help a chuckle at that, even as he slides his hand along the curve of Irina’s hip. “You wear them so well.” Irina makes another of her scoffing noises at that. “However,” he continues, looking away from the embroidery – he had chosen the tailor well, it is just the sort of design that will make Vassilia green when she visits – and glancing at his wife’s face, “I was thinking we might need to take them off.”

Irina raises an eyebrow at him. “Were you.”

Mirnatius nods. “I’ve been planning all afternoon, and I would be very upset to see these ruined.”

Irina’s eyebrow manages to go even higher. Honestly, it’s as if his wife wants to be oblivious to his intentions. “And what sort of plans are they, that my dress is in danger?”

“Mm, well,” Mirnatius hums, letting his hand drift towards Irina’s thigh, “I am here to serve you, after all.”

Irina’s face is even pinker. He _has_ to find a way to paint her like this. He’d listen to ten thousand petitioners for just one sketch.

“Well,” she says finally, voice slightly rougher, “do not let me stop you.”

Mirnatius smiles, and pushes himself to standing. 

The dress is not as heavy as the winter clothes to come, but the tiny buttons and ties are maddening to undo, especially when his fingers seem far less graceful than usual. Still, the effort is worth the reward when Mirnatius finally succeeds in undoing all the infernal mechanisms keeping his wife in her fashionable, expensive gown. Irina stands to let him slip the thing from her shoulders and steps out of it, so that he can whisk it away, out of danger.

Once he comes back, Irina is only in her shift, and Mirnatius could not care less whether that gets ruined.

“So,” Irina says carefully, “what exactly were you planning, husband?”

“Well,” Mirnatius says. It is only a few strides back to her, another moment for his hands to find her waist. Her hair is streaming down her back and her eyes are bright when she looks at him. “You, sitting here“– and he guides her to the couch he had flung himself on earlier, so that she sits to face him, her legs already open to let him stand between them – “and I here.”

Irina looks up at him, her chin titled in that slightly defiant way that he is certainly not enamored with. “That seems a little far to be doing anything.”

“Of course.” Mirnatius nods, and with one hand on the arm of the couch lowers himself back to his knees. Now their faces are even again, and, more importantly, much more of Irina is within reach. “Better?”

“Hmm.” She’s never been one to reveal herself, this wife of his, but he likes the way she looks at him, frank and assessing and still flushed. “I suppose.”

“You suppose,” he mimics, reaching to push her shift up past her knees. “You’re so unfeeling, my dear.”

Irina huffs at that. Mirnatius thinks she almost wants to cross her arms, only she has enough self-restraint not to. “Really.”

“Truly,” he replies, skimming a hand along her knee and up her thigh. 

She shivers, only to still herself. “Husband,” she says, and it is only because of experience that he can hear the note of strain in her voice.

He hums again, looks at her legs. Her shift is white against her skin, and he pushes it a little further up. 

“ _Husband_ ,” she says again, the strain much more obvious now, and he has to bite his lip not to smile in triumph.

“Did you need something?” He asks, looking up at her through his eyelashes, and oh, what a sight. Irina is truly flushing now, pink spreading down her neck, lip caught between her teeth. She isn’t beautiful, but she is lovely in a way that makes him selfishly glad no one else knows it, not like he does.

She rests a hand on his shoulder in benediction, thumb swiping along his neck. “You said you lived to serve.”

Mirnatius says nothing. Instead, he arches an eyebrow, leans down to kiss the spot just above her knee. Sucks, a little.

Her thumb pushes into his neck, nail biting into the skin, and the pain of it sends a jolt to his cock. “ _Serve_ , then.”

“As you command,” he says to her thigh, and grabs her hips to pull her forward.

The first few occasions of consummating their marriage had been – awkward, to say the least, ungainly and inexperienced, both of them ill at ease. Despite the rumors of lechery and sin, he had rarely done anything with any woman – why would he, when the monster in his stomach would have devoured them – and Irina has always been far more experienced with the games one plays in the council chambers, not the bedchambers.

A year is a long time, however, and when properly motivated, Mirnatius has found that he’s a fast learner.

The noise Irina makes when he licks her folds, for example, is very motivational.

“Husband,” Irina sighs as Mirnatius swipes her tongue over her, pushing her thighs apart with his shoulders, pressing his thumbs into the creases of her skinny hips. Her other hand rests in his hair, nails biting into the scalp. 

He chases after the noises she makes, the scent and sound of her making him dizzy. “More,” she says, and he gives her more, scrapes his stubble against her thighs. “More,” she says again, fingers twisting in his hair, and he moves one hand to sink one finger, then two inside her, crooking them slightly to make her gasp. “More,” she says a third time, voice cracking, and he licks harder, fucks her faster, feels her trembling under his mouth.

“Mirnatius,” she says, voice thready with need, and the sound of her saying his name never fails to go directly to his cock. “You’re so – ah,” she breaks as he moves his hand just a little faster, angles his fingers slightly up.

Her hips are hitching, and he can tell, he knows she’s almost there. He sucks at the nub of her, and she makes a sound like she’s been punched, shaking herself to pieces on his fingers and tongue.

He waits between her thighs as she comes down, kissing the soft inner skin, until her fingers loosen and stroke his hair. When he looks up, she’s red-faced and staring down at him, mouth half open. This, this is what makes it worth it – his wife, all reserve gone, eyes soft as she looks at him.

“That was – you’re so good, Mirnatius,” she says, and oh fuck, he doesn’t think he’s been harder in his life.

He must have made a noise, because her grip tightens in his hair. “Interesting,” she says, and then her other hand starts pulling at his shoulder. “You should undress.”

He stands too quickly, blood rushing around his body. There’s a tearing sound as he pulls off his shirt, but he doesn’t mind. The color is no longer in fashion. 

When he finishes, Irina has disrobed as well, and it is all Mirnatius can do not to rush over and – well, there’s so much he’d like to do, but it seems like a much better idea to wait and see what _she_ would like to do. He’s found that rarely steers him wrong.

“Well?” he asks, shrugging. It’s not as if she can’t see his interest.

“I think,” she says, cheeks pink, but with a steely glint in her eye, “You’re not done serving me.”

His mouth goes dry. He takes a step towards her, stops. “In what way?”

Irina purses her lips. “Sit,” she commands, still so red, but the hand she uses to gesture at the couch doesn’t shake.

Mirnatius sits. 

His wife takes her time to approach him, pushing her hair behind her shoulders, revealing her breasts, her stomach, her hips. When she reaches the couch, she lowers herself onto her knees over him, face just above his own.

“I think,” she whispers. She licks her lips, continues. “I think I’ll use you,” her eyes flick down, “and, if you are very good, you may come inside me. Does that suit?”

“Irina,” Mirnatius breathes, head swimming.

She cocks her head, leans in closer. Her breath is cool against his ear. “Does it suit?”

He nods. 

When she sinks down to meet him, she is deliberate, careful. It is all he can do not to move, to sit and restrain himself and remain good for her. He allows himself a hand on her hip, and she clearly allows it, nodding slightly as she lowers herself onto him. He tilts his head back, breathes through his nose, biting at his lip. She’s tight and wet and he has to be good, he has to stay good.

“Husband,” she says, and he blinks his eyes open, finds her looking at him. Her mouth is half open. He has to kiss her.

Irina is sweet like honey, cool like water. She makes a contemplative noise into his mouth, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and moves her hips. Oh god, Mirnatius needs to be good, but it is hard when she starts to move, still kissing him, fingernails tightening on his back. He brings his hands to her hips, to help her, and she makes an approving noise that sends white fire down his spine.

“Irina,” he mumbles as she fucks herself, slow and careful. “Can I –“

“Not yet,” she says, eyes shut, and this is torture, it really is. His wife is trying to murder him again. 

“May I touch you,” he gasps, desperate.

She makes a considering noise. 

“Please, Irina.“

She grabs one of his hands and pulls it up to her mouth, sucks his fingers. He’s going to die. “Now you may,” she says.

When he rubs at her, she starts to breath harder, clenches down. It takes all of his tenuous self-control not to spend in that moment, because she hasn’t said that he can. Instead he concentrates on her, on lifting his hips to meet hers and touching her in the places that make her gasp. Her hair falls in a curtain around them, brushing against his chest. His skin feels hot, tight, like he’s on fire, and she’s the only one that can put it out.

He presses down harder with his fingers, circles them faster. The noise Irina makes is sweeter than birdsong. 

“Are you,” he breathes, and she doesn’t say anything but fucks herself down harder, head tipping back, eyes falling shut. One, two, and then she’s clenching around him, shuddering into pieces.

Mirnatius manages to keep himself still until she finishes, which he thinks demonstrates extraordinary restraint, under the circumstances. But then Irina shifts her hips, and oh fuck, maybe he’s not capable of such restraint as he thought.

“Please,” he says, begs, really. “Please, Irina, can I – have I –“

“Yes,” she says, rocking her hips, “You’ve been so good for me –“ and it’s barely a few thrusts before he’s coming inside her, vision whiting out at the edges.

It takes a long time for him to come back to himself. When he does, he finds Irina slowly easing herself up, grimacing slightly at the mess spattered between her thighs. Then she shoves at him until he’s tipped back along the couch, and she’s draped over him, skinny knees knocking into his legs, hair tickling his face. His hand finds its way to her back without him even thinking about it, fingers spanning across her spine.

He is on the verge of drifting off when he feels his wife’s fingers tapping on his arm.

“A diplomatic mission. Send that one cousin of yours. Alexis.” Her voice is even softer, rasping slightly.

Mirnatius lifts his head to look at where she’s pillowed against his chest. “To Svetia?”

“Mm,” Irina hums, eyes shut. Her cheeks are still that rose color. “No obvious business interests. Cousin of the tsar. No wife. Fluent.”

“So we treat, then?” he asks. 

She nods, yawns. “War would destroy us. Even a blowhard like Casimir can see that.”

“Or an idiot like your husband.”

“You are not an idiot,” she says, opening her eyes to frown at him. When he sketches her, he will have to pay attention to how the top of her nose wrinkles.

“I am when I am next to you, tsarina. We all know who’s in charge.”

Irina scowls at him. “What if I say that _you_ are? What then?”

“Well, I suppose you are right, as you are in all things.”

She makes a truly indelicate noise at that, pulling herself up to shove her pointy chin into his shoulder. “Still, you can’t – you’re not an idiot. I don’t think so, at any rate.” Her mouth moves against his neck. “You’re much better, now.”

“Only because of you,” he says, but the warmth of her words fills his chest, even so.


End file.
